Accords of Madness XVII: The Last Dragonborn
by AtticMonsters
Summary: The Accords of Madness are only supposed to have 16 volumes. But since when has insanity done as it is supposed to? A story that begins with despair, ends with hope, and is stuffed full of cheese, yarn, and romance in between. Love is madness, friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings everyone. I've never published anything before, and honestly I probably should just stick to being an overworked and over imaginative grad student. But...this plot bunny would NOT GO AWAY. So here we are. This hasn't been proof read, so tell me if you catch any mistakes. Or have any questions. Or just want to chat.**

*I don't own anything in this story but my O.C.*

**"Bold"= Speech  
**"Normal"= Ophelia's POV  
_"Italics"= Ophelia's memories  
_

*The bits at the beginning and end are the story as recorded in the Accords of Madness, Volume XVII

**The Meeting in the Woods**

**Once, long ago, a young Altmer left her home in the Summerset Isles and traveled without rest into the wild and dangerous lands of Skyrim. Not long after her arrival she was captured, mistaken for a spy in the war that raged through the country, and sentenced to death. Death, however, was not what found her.**

* * *

The wagon rattled all around her as it moved toward Helgen. It was a grim and hopeless sound, but then again, she was well familiar with despair by now. It seemed to follow wherever she went nowadays, from the silent ruin of her family home to the bleak wilderness of Skyrim. And now, finally, to this empty stretch of road that carried her to death. The Nord, Ralof, had told her of their destination as soon as she had woken, of their shared fate, and she could do not but give a tired laugh in response. Her reaction garnered looks of confusion from her fellow prisoners and a few of the surrounding guards. They knew nothing of her life, of her suffering, and she couldn't tell them even if she wanted. Speech had never been her strength, and even if it had been, what words could describe such horrors as she had seen? Such pain?

* * *

**_"You've never been a good storyteller. And probably never will be, unless you learn to say more than a handful of words at a time."_**

_Her mother stood tall in the herb garden, basket in hand as she wiped the sweat from her brow. It was late spring, and the world around their sturdy home was painted in delicate gossamer greens, soft and new and beautiful. The flowers bloomed in riotous colors, dotted with soft pastels, glowing with the early morning dew. She frowned, stung by the careless words. It was an unkind thing to say to a child who was already so self-conscious about her own oddities. The other children in the village teased her about her silent nature often enough, second only to remarks about the uncommon shade of her eyes. Gray was not a pretty color, they said, only suitable for storm clouds and dirty dishwater. Only fit for the daughter of a lowborn human and a disgraced noble. Tears were burning in her eyes, though she held them back with admirable restraint born of years of practice. Crying would only make her feel worse, and her mother still had more to say._

* * *

The gates were coming closer, and the horse thief Lokir had finally begun to understand that prison was not what awaited them at their destination. His yells did nothing to slow the march of the horses as they pulled onward toward the execution grounds. She and the others were silent, knowing the futility of such outbursts, and prepared for the inevitable with varying degrees of regret. She wondered, vaguely, what her parents would think of her situation. Her parents were dead though, and by the Maker, she was ready to be dead too. She was so tired, so brokenhearted, that it seemed utterly miraculous that she even gathered enough of her tattered will to flee the Summerset Isles. In retrospect, she couldn't quite remember where the strength to run had come from. Only the vague memory of heat and rage and survival at all costs. But all of that had disappeared and left nothing but ash and grim acceptance in its wake. They were being pulled out of the wagon now, first Ulfric Stormcloak, then the sobbing Lokir, followed by Ralof and herself. The General (Tullius? Was that his name? It was unimportant at this point) dismounted his horse and stood next to an impatient looking imperial captain and a group of Thalmor who eyed her with obvious disgust. They talked amongst themselves before the captain stepped forward.

**"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."** She ordered as a guard from their journey opened a small scroll. It was him who called out the order of their demise.

**"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.**"He read over the calls and jeers of the villagers. **"And Ralof of Riverwood."**

Both men walked forward with heads high. She had to admit that even gagged and bound for execution, Ulfric Stormcloak looked as calm and in control as any Jarl. Ralof, too, strode on with his head held high. It was rare to see such conviction in the face of ultimate sacrifice, she thought to herself. At least she would have decent company to travel to the other life with. Or, at least, mostly decent…..

**"Lokir of Rorikstead."**

The man in question lost all of his fragile composure and screamed out.

"**No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this**!"

They all watched in silence as the frightened man made a desperate bid for freedom on foot.

**"HALT!**" Screamed the captain, face alive with fury.

**"You're not going to kill me!"**

She wondered if Lokir would make it to the gates before he was killed. The captain answered that question fairly quickly.

**"Archers!"**

A single arrow pierced Lokir's chest. He fell into the mud, free at last. She mouthed a quick prayer for his soul, and gave thanks that he did not have to anticipate death any longer.

**"Anyone else feel like running?**" The captain queried, a trace of smug satisfaction on her face.

Nobody else moved. The remainder of her motley group is either too proud or too weary to try. The imperial guard turned back to the wagon and saw her, standing exactly where she landed when she jumped down. A look of confusion crossed his face as he looked from her to his scroll.

"**Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?"** He called out, puzzlement evident in his voice.

She walked calmly to him, stopping at a large enough distance away that the archers don't become defensive. He was handsome, she noted without true interest, and there was kindness in the lines of his face.

**"My name is….."**

* * *

_**"Ophelia,"** her mother started, turning to face her only child.** "Look at me."**_

_Ophelia swallowed the brunt of her tears and looked up into the fair face of her mother. She was everything an Altmer was supposed to be. Golden as the sun, graceful as the clouds, and noble to her bones despite her worn work clothes. It was times like this, with such perfection staring her in the face, that Ophelia felt most like an ill-born twist of nature._

**_"My little bird, you must listen to me. Listen closely, for what I tell you now, you must carry with you always. Even when I am gone, remember these words."_**_Mother continued, bending down to lock eyes with her daughter. There was seriousness in her countenance that Ophelia seldom saw, and she was shocked into attention by the strangeness of it. Her mother leaned close and whispered, as if the words were a secret that couldn't be shared with anyone else._**_"Your silence is neither a defect nor a curse. You think well on your words before you say them, and that gives them power that others do not have. One day, when you have grown strong, you will find people who will need and appreciate that gift. People who understand that if you choose to speak, they should choose to listen, and listen well. You are more rare and wonderful than any treasure, more clever than any thief, and strong enough to change the world. Always remember this, my little bird. And remember that your father and I love you more than anything else."_**

_The tears came without resistance that time, and she buried her face into her mother's neck sobbing. Her mother strokes her hair and let her cry, holding her close among the plants in the bright sun of springtime._

* * *

**"You're not with the Thalmor Embassy, are you High Elf? No, that can't be right..."**the guard mumbled, before issuing a louder **"Captain. What should we do? She's not on the list."**

**"Forget the list. She goes to the block."**Came the immediate and remorseless reply.

**"By your orders, Captain."** He acquiesced, giving Ophelia a look of pity before whispering a quick **"I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Summerset Isle.**"

**"No need for that,"** she whispered back._**"**_**Bury me somewhere peaceful."**

He looks into her face, into her eyes, and she knew that he would grant that last mercy. "_He really is a good man."_ she thinks fuzzily. Such a pity meeting him in these unfortunate circumstances.

**"Follow the Captain, prisoner."** He says gently, motioning her to the left.

She moved stiffly to the chopping block, everything fading into a buzz of hazy sound and blurred movement. She hardly noticed as she was forced to her knees. A strange calm had taken over, giving her the courage to close her eyes and wait for the end. She felt peaceful. She felt **_ready_**.

Abruptly, a shiver worked it's way down her spine. The words of the people around her are still far-away and dim, but another noise catches her ears and makes everything in her body tense. She's never heard it before, this noise, this omen of ill intent, but she knows it will bring nothing but evil. It's a shrieking roar, distant now but coming closer every second. The flame that kindled when she fled her homeland flared hot again, burning brighter, screaming at her to fight. Fight to kill, **_fight to live_**. She hears the rush of wings and the thunderous sound of something enormous hitting the wall of the keep before raising her head. Soldiers and prisoners alike scramble for cover around her as she looks up into the gaping maw of the dragon, and for a brief moment Ophelia stands in perfect stillness. In those few seconds, she feels her soul shift and then rearrange into something dangerous. She thinks, hears, sees, tastes the words that come next, and makes them her own.

_It is time to fight._

The dragon looked at her then, all gleaming scales and awful glowering eyes. She barely manages to move before a jet of white hot flame scorches the ground where she previously stood.

* * *

It seems like hours later when she emerged with the guard, Hadvar, from the ruins of Helgen. The sheer amount of slaughter she has seen made her feel centuries older she actually is, and not all of it was caused by the great serpent. In her bid for freedom, she had been forced to end the lives of several Stormcloak soldiers. She had never killed anyone before, and the experience was more horrifying than she ever could have imagined. The looks on their faces…..she would never forget the terror. But it was a necessary evil, one that bought her a sword and armor. Her younger self would have been appalled by such thoughts. In the time before The Burning, she would never have saved her own life at the cost of another. Gentle hearted, her father had called her, as she mended the leg of an injured rabbit. But that was a different time, and she was now a different person.

In the midst of all this destruction, something had emerged within her. The will to survive. And she had every intention of surviving.

**"It's probably best if we split up."** Hadvar said lowly, once they are clear of the cave mouth.** "If the dragon is still watching, it'll be harder to track two separate paths."**

She nodded firmly, looking to the sky and then down to her stolen armor. He must have been able to sense her unease about wearing it, because he suddenly spoke again.

**"Closest town from here is Riverwood. My uncle's the blacksmith there. I'm sure he'd help you out."**

She looked down at him in surprise, and then smiled. She had been right about him. Hadvar was truly a noble man, and she felt justified in her decision to follow him. Her approval showed in her expression, and he blushed slightly before holding out a hand.

**"Good luck. I wouldn't have made it without your help today."**

**"Yes,"** she murmured, firmly shaking his proffered hand.**"Good Luck."**

* * *

She had been walking on her own for approximately 30 minutes before she got the creeping sensation of being watched. The feeling stayed with her, and she grew increasingly paranoid, stopping at intervals to glance around while pretending to catch her breath. She never could never see anything out of the ordinary, but the feeling persisted until she could no longer walk with her weapon sheathed. Sword at the ready, she turned in a circle, growling under her breath. A twig snapped to her left, and she whirled into motion…..

**"Ah! Easy lass, no need to get so defensive!"** The stranger shouts vociferously.

...Only to stop her sword inches from cutting the neck of the most out-of-place man she had ever seen in her life. He was taller than her, she noticed with surprise. Half-born as she was, she still had the height of a full blooded high-elf, and this man looked to be more Nord than anything else. His eyes, though, were unlike any Nord's she has ever met. They appeared golden in the late afternoon sun, and bright as if back-lit by a fire. Perhaps he himself was of mixed heritage, for other than his unusual size and eye color he looked like any ordinary human. He was quite handsome too, in her opinion, with a young face and rakishly styled auburn hair. Dressed in a finely cut green vest, dark pants, and polished riding boots, it was immediately apparent to her that she was in the presence of a man of leisure. One who decided to walk though the deep woods….. with nothing but a cane and a smirk. How odd.

**"You've been following me."** She hisses, adrenaline still pumping in her veins. The part of her that burned, the inferno that now drove her, urged her not to drop her guard. This man was not as harmless as he looked. In fact, she feels threatened down to her bones just being near him. Something is off about this encounter.

His answering smile is all teeth. She suddenly felt the insane urge to giggle, and repressed it with well concealed horror. As if sensing her momentary weakness, he replies her question in that strange, lilting accent that she can't place.

**"Just making sure that a fair lass such as yourself stays safe in this bandit ridden wood. I AM a gentleman, after all."**

He all but purrs the last sentence, and it does embarrassing things to her stomach hearing him. That voice….there is something about it. She needs to be far away from this man, and soon. The notion occurred to her that she may have been better off facing the dragon. As if hearing her thoughts, he smirked again and she felt heat rush to her face. Yes, retreat is the best option she has .

**"I'm fine. Go about your business."** She grumbled brusquely, before sheathing her sword and turning to walk away as quickly as her legs would allow. She made it all of ten paces before the end of his cane is stabbed firmly into the tree she was about to pass. It embeds at face level, and she stares at the splintered bark before moving her gaze past hand, arm, and chest until she's looking into the stranger's lovely face. He looks mildly insulted, though she could swear she hear humor in his voice when he speaks.

**"How rude! Can't be bothered to exchange a few paltry words with a concerned passerby! And I was planning on offering you some of my cheese, you impolite beastie. But since you seem to be in such a hurry, I'll keep it all to myself. Hafrumph!"**

She is grinning by the time his short tirade is done and, by The Maker, she has no clue why. She is being lectured on manners by a strange man in the middle of the woods, hours after escaping both execution and dragon attack. This, without a doubt, is the most peculiar encounter she's ever experienced.

**"Apologies."** She answered still smiling. **"My day has been…difficult."**

He removes his cane from the tree and brings it to his side in a fluid motion, leaning his weight on it while casually perusing her appearance. Taking in her ill-fitting (and slightly burnt) armor and weary face without expression, he reaches into the small pouch at his side (Had it been there this whole time? How did she not notice?) and removes a palm-sized item wrapped in linen. He begins to uncover the object, holding it between them so that she could see without obstruction. It turns out to be a small yellow wedge of cheese, sitting perfectly in his hand like an offering. He proceeded to break it jaggedly in half, offering her the bigger half with a small sincere smile.

**"Difficult days are an understandable reason to be churlish, lass. Sadly, everyone must suffer a few every now and again. But don't be downhearted, dearie. After darkness comes the dawn. With cheese. And Darjeeling tea!"** He declares with solemnity, before letting out a slightly manic bout of laughter and taking a bite out of his own cheese.

Ophelia took the gift carefully, holding it in both hands with a profound sense of wonder. It was strange, but she suddenly felt much more optimistic about her circumstances. She would survive, as the blaze in her soul demanded. Perhaps, though, she can learn to be happy again too.

**"Thank you, Sir."** She utters, trying to convey the depth of her gratitude with her eyes. She can't articulate how much his words have helped her on this dark day. He gives her a winning grin, an elaborate bow, and bids her a safe journey before strolling off whistling a cheerful tune. Within minutes, he has disappeared into the trees like an apparition. The only evidence of his passing is the cheese she still clutches in both hands. Ophelia brought it slowly to her mouth, taking a small bite and chewing carefully. It's was delicious, and her stomach suddenly decided to remind her that it had not been filled in some time. She polished off the rest of the wedge hastily, noting the odd flavor that permeates every bite. It's not quite spicy, not quite sweet, but entirely wonderful. She departs from the forest in the opposite direction, toward Riverwood, feeling better than she could remember feeling in a long while. So good was her mood, that it entirely escaped her notice that she was being closely followed by a large fox with unusually colored irises.

* * *

_**The Altmer was instead discovered by The Mad One, who looked upon her soul and at once became captivated by its strange and quiet brilliance. Knowing that such a soul wouldn't remain undiscovered by the other deities indefinitely, he offered her a gift that would keep them at bay while he plotted how to best steal her for himself. Thus, the Altmer unknowingly set in motion the events that would lead her into inescapable madness.**_


	2. Chapter 2

Here** we are again, I suppose. I went back and edited chapter one, finally, but i'm still not quite satisfied with it. Maybe i'll rewrite it entirely, once finals are over. But who knows, what with all the projects and whatnot that clutter up my lovely summer break. In any case, I've gotten two reviews! I may have danced a little, when I saw. Speaking of which:**

LadyofSummerset: Why the Daggerfall version of Sheogorath? Well, I always imagined that daedra tend to change their appearances a lot, mostly for giggles. A bit like changing outfits, ya know? Not to worry though, i'm bringing back the Skyrim version eventually. There may even be an appearance by the Hero of Kvatch later. But that's just a possibility.

DevoutofSheogorath: Oh my, you've picked up on an important detail already! Why yes, the Maker is a reference to the Skaal. And her father...well, i'll let you read about him. I'm planning to flesh out a lot more details about her parents as the story progresses. They were pretty amazing people, and Ophelia's personality reflects their awesome parenting skills. It's unfortunate what happened to them...but you'll know what I mean after a few more updates. Oh, and thanks for the input. I wasn't really pleased with the way my first chapter was written, but your review was really encouraging. Keep reading, if you have the time, because I could always use someone who knows the game to double check my writing.

*I own nothing. Just a dog and a large debt courtesy of student loans. Thanks, college.*

**"Bold"= Speech  
**"Normal"= Ophelia's POV  
_"Italics"= Ophelia's memories and thoughts_

**Dungeons and Dragons**

** The Altmer, not knowing what she had done, continued along her path. In time she discovered that fate had given her rare powers, a gift that could save or destroy all of Nirn. So it was that the Altmer became the last Dragonborn. In the Plains of Oblivion, many eyes turned toward Tamriel searching for the Dovahkiin. Some searched with ill intent, hoping to quicken the mortal apocalypse. Others sought her out simply for assistance. Most, however, were motivated by avarice. They longed to collect her soul, the very last of its kind to ever be created. Any Daedra with such a spirit within their realm would surely prove superiority over their brothers and sisters. Despite their considerable efforts, the gift of the Mad Star did its work well. None could divine her whereabouts, with only one exception. Deep within the Asylums the Mad God laughed.**

* * *

The short walk to Riverwood was pleasantly uneventful. She ambled leisurely, her newly found sense of contentment slowing her steps and easing her worries. It was uncommon, she thought to herself, to walk in peace through this country. She had discovered that quickly enough after crossing the border from Hammerfell. It seemed at the time that she most likely wouldn't be able to travel for more than 10 minutes without meeting a pack of wolves or a bandit. Now, though, she could almost swear that Skyrim itself was granting her safe passage in the wake of their brutal introduction. As she approached the gates of Riverwood she could faintly discern the sounds of a lively village. Looking ahead she could already see a child merrily chasing a dog through the street, a farmer pushing a cart filled with cabbage, chickens scratching the dirt for insects. She could hear the sound of metal hitting metal –Hadvar's uncle the blacksmith? - and picked up her pace. If the Maker was kind, she would soon be in armor that she could say was her own.

* * *

_"__**Papa, that man today….**__"she said tentatively, holding his larger hand on the road back home. It was late in the evening, and the sun was at their backs as they walked away from the stall where he sold meat to the villagers. She had been with him since the morning, practicing with her bow as he hunted, and had watched as a ragged looking drifter tried to sneak a rabbit haunch away by hiding it under his dirty tunic. Her father had caught him before he could escape into the village. He had been angry at first, demanding either payment or the return of his wares. The drifter had looked so sad when he handed the haunch back to her father; she had felt sad looking at him. Papa seemed to soften also, handing the rabbit back to the vagrant._

"_**You can have it this time,**__" He said, looking sternly at the other man. "__**But next time you get hungry, don't try to steal from me. I'll gladly give you food in exchange for a little work.**__"_

Startled, the man looked from the haunch to her father's face. His face broke out into a jubilant (if slightly crooked) grin.

_**"Thank you Nord. Divines bless your kind heart.**__" He murmured with a small bow._

"_**May the All-Maker guide you to peace, friend."**__ Came her father's reply._

_The drifter looked at him oddly after that, tilting his head in confusion. His brows creased a little, but then smoothed as he issued a final thanks before turning away. She hadn't had the chance after that to ask Papa about what happened, as they were suddenly accosted by the cook from The Golden Leaf Inn (who sneered whenever he came to the stall, and called her "half-breed" under his breath when her father was busy). Now though, in the calm of the sunset, she could satisfy her curiosity. _

"_**What about him, birdie?**__"Came the answering rumble. He looked down at her as he spoke, gray eyes locking with her own._

_**"Why did you….?"**_

_**"Why did I let him have the meat, even though he tried to steal it?**__"_

_She nodded in affirmation, watching him as he turned to look at the road ahead. He was a tall man (though not as tall as her mother), with brown-blonde hair and a thick beard. He was lean, built for speed over strength, but she had seen him carry whole deer from the forest to the village with little trouble. He appeared to come to some conclusion in his head, and looked back to her with a gentle expression on his face._

"_**You remember what your mother and I told you about stealing, Birdie?**__"_

"_**Yes Papa. It's wrong to take things that aren't yours.**__"_

"_**That's right. But the man today had nothing. Only the clothes on his back, and even those didn't look like they'd last much longer. It IS wrong to take things, Ophelia, but he wasn't stealing them just because he wanted to. He was starving. And that's why I gave him food. Sometimes in life, people become so sad and desperate that they can't see any other way to survive than to hurt others. But, if someone shows them a kindness, it may be possible to remind them that they can be kind too. Do you understand?**__"_

"_**I…think so**__."_

"_**That's my smart little birdie. What do you say to a race home, hmm? Think you can finally beat me to the front gate?**__"_

"_**Yes! I'll win today!**__"_

"_**You think so? We'll see about that. On the count of three, alright?**__"_

_She nodded vehemently, pulling up the hem of her dress and rolling to her toes in preparation to sprint. He laughed, before starting the count._

"_**One…two…..**__"_

* * *

"**Three! Three septims is as low as I'll go for apples of this quality. No lower!**" Crowed an old woman, haggling with an obviously irritated teenage girl. Their argument continued as Ophelia moved past them toward the smithy, walking up the wooden steps to speak to the man at the forge. He was a widely built Nord, arms large with muscles gained by years of shaping metal. He seemed to be very deeply focused on the helmet he was shaping on the coals. She hated to interrupt him in the middle of the process, but the stolen armor was growing heavier by the second and she was beginning to get hungry again. Ophelia cleared her throat loudly, and the blacksmith tilted his head toward the noise before putting down his tools. Turning fully, he faced her with a careful expression. She hadn't thought beforehand of what she was to say (Did she mention her almost-decapitation? The Dragon?) and was opening her mouth to speak when he beat her to it.

**"You'll be the elf, then."**He stated plainly, with the disapproving air of someone who had been kept waiting.

**"Yes..?"**She replied, confusion plain in her voice. (How did he know she was coming? Was he expecting some other elf?) His expression changed to one of open friendliness before he spoke again.

**"I'm Alvor. And you're late. Hadvar's been here for close to an hour now. Getting real worried that something unfortunate had happened to you on the road."  
**  
**"Ah. Got tired, took a break on the way."**

"**I see. Not much of a talker, are you? In any case, come into the house. Sigrid has some Apple Cabbage Stew still warm from lunch. You're probably pretty hungry, yeah? And we best not keep my poor nephew waiting; he'll pace a hole in my floor if we leave him much longer."**He said with cheerful exasperation. He moved past her, signaling her to follow as he strode toward the wooden doorway beside the smithy. Alvor opened the door and the smell of warm food drifted out through the threshold. Stomach rumbling, she followed him inside.

The interior of the home was sweetly reminiscent of the house she spent her childhood in. It was plain and functional, but very warm and strewn with a few well-worn items of comfort. There was a woman sitting at a table, hands busily moving to repair a small dress. A young girl played with dolls on the floor beside her (_was she making them joust? How cute_.) and a distressed looking Hadvar paced in front of the fire. Upon their entry, all three inhabitants looked up from their respective endeavors.

**"Divines be praised! You made it!"** Hadvar exclaimed excitedly, moving toward her with surprising swiftness. **"I was worried that after such an amazing escape, you might have run into trouble again."**

**"No trouble."**She muttered, embarrassed by the attention. **"Just stopped to rest."**

"**Now, Hadvar, let the poor woman sit and eat before you start badgering her."** Spoke the woman at the table before rising to ladle stew from a pot over the fire into a wooden bowl. **"Come and sit, dear. You look like you could use a good meal after all that's happened."  
**  
Ophelia approached the table to accept the food, taking it and the proffered spoon with near reverence.

"**Many thanks, missus."**Ophelia replied gratefully, sinking onto the bench with bowl in hand.

**"Just call me Sigrid. All that "missus" business makes me feel like an old woman. You've already met my husband and nephew. And this is…."  
**  
**"I'm Dorthea!"** The young girl called out, rising from her seat on the floor. **"And one day I'm going to be the best blacksmith in Skyrim!"  
**  
Sigrid shot a venomous glare at her husband over Dorthea's head, making Alvor turn away with a sheepish grin. Hadvar was obviously accustomed to this argument, and rolled his eyes before giving Ophelia a shrug. Dorthea, oblivious to these happenings, looked at Ophelia with something akin to hero worship in her eyes.

"**Did you really see it? Did you really see a dragon?"  
**  
Taken aback, she turned to Hadvar for explaination. He looked vastly uncomfortable for a moment, before squaring his shoulders in determination.

**"I've already explained to my Aunt and Uncle about what happened at Helgen. You've got to understand, this news is… it's catastrophic! We're already having enough trouble with Ulfric Stormcloak and his ridiculous rebellion, and now dragons! Skyrim can't survive such a plague divided as it is! That's why I must ask a favor of you. Please, go to Whiterun. Talk to Jarl Balgruuf in Dragonsreach, tell him of what happened, and ask him to send reinforcements to Riverwood. If a dragon attacks this place now, there will be no survivors to tell the tale!"  
**  
**"What of you?"** Ophelia retorted, appetite disintegrating. **"Where will you go?"**

**"I will travel on to Solitude. Jarl Elisif needs to know about this as well. The sooner we can end the Stormcloak uprising, the sooner we can deal with the dragons. **_**Before**_** they scorch this country into Oblivion."  
**  
Everyone stared at her as she apathetically stirred her stew, deep in contemplation. It wouldn't be so much trouble to go to Whiterun, she thought to herself. She would be more than happy to go, honestly, if only to save this town and the people in it. But to be drawn into a civil war in a country that was not her own…that was problematic. She had seen quite enough of that in her youth on the Summerset Isles. She was sure that the Thalmor would be involved in this political game too, forever sticking their upturned noses into other people's business. The group at Helgen had proved as much. But….these people needed aid, and quickly. Hadvar was right; an attack now would decimate the entire population in minutes. How could she, in good conscience, leave them to such a bleak future? Sighing, she turned back to Hadvar and Alvor, still watching her from beside the doorway.

"**Alright. I can do that. But I'll need supplies for the journey. And some armor, if you can manage."**

Both men broke out in smiles, nodding to her in joy. Sigrid seemed to sag a little in relief, and turned to grab a small cloth sack out of a cupboard and fill it with food.

**"I'll go ahead and get Hadvar's supplies ready." **She said, stuffing a loaf of bread into the bag with gusto. **"Then I'll start on yours. He has a longer journey, and you still need to rest a bit before you leave."  
**  
**"You can have a full set of armor, if you want it."** Alvor broke in, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. **"But I'll need iron from Embershard Mine, and it's been infested with bandits for weeks now. Take care of them, though, and I'll forge your things for free. You might even be able to collect some coin from that mangy band of dullards."**

Bandits. Of _course_ there were bandits. Sighing again, Ophelia turned back to her soup and forced herself to eat another spoonful. She would, apparently, need her strength much sooner than anticipated.

* * *

She was exhausted once again as she entered the gates of Whiterun two days later. The bandits in Embershard had proved to be little trouble, and even had a small horde of septims tucked away in a chest with a lovely new steel sword. She had actually felt sorry for killing them and taking their treasures. At least, until one of them started making uncouth comments about her backside and inferring unpleasant things about a lone woman walking into a cave full of men. Any pity she felt had been forgotten after that. Some people, the mused, were beyond the remembrance of kindness. But in any case, the real work began once the last bandit fell. Lugging the iron back to town had been more difficult than she had anticipated. It had taken her three trips to bring it all back to Riverwood, and then she had to refine it herself so that Alvor could get started on her cladding. The result was well worth the trouble though. Her new armor was only simple iron, but it was well fitted and strong and _hers_. She buried the belongings of the dead Stormcloak by the river, saying a prayer for him before leaving Riverwood. The bandits had deserved their untimely demise, but the soldier had only been fighting for his life. Ophelia only hoped that his soul was at rest now, and that she one day might atone for his death. But in the meantime, she had to see a Jarl about a dragon. And it was already proving to be a difficult task, if the guards outside the gates had been any indication. She had finally resorted to threats after it became apparent that they didn't intend to let her pass. The soldiers inside the wall were no better, eyeing her suspiciously as she ascended districts of Whiterun, though she was too distracted to notice.  
_ "By the Maker, there are a blasted lot of stairs."_ she thought sourly. Her new armor, while sturdy, certainly wasn't the easiest thing to carry. Perhaps, if she could gather enough septims, she could afford something lighter? Maybe a nice bow too, with plenty of arrows. And a shield! A shield would be absolutely necessary if she wore lighter armor. Alvor had tried to give her one before she had left the forge, but she hadn't the strength to carry it along with her food, sword, and whatnot. The supply of plants she had gathered on her way hadn't helped either. But how could she pass up an opportunity for free potion ingredients? She had even found a single Nirnroot growing by the river, the ringing sound of it dragging her from the road in recognition. It was useless to her personally, she didn't usually dabble in potions that caused damage, but it was surely worth a few septims to the local alchemist. She reached the top of the (seemingly endless) stairs slightly winded, and paused to look back on the city below. It was actually quite lovely from this height, she noted. Even the dying tree in the square below looked delicate and picturesque. Turning back to the task at hand, she took one more deep breath before raising her chin and putting on her most serious face. It was time to finish the task appointed to her. She felt her spirit flare gently in agreement before she opened the doors to Dragonsreach, feeling accomplished.

* * *

Much later, standing by the smoking skeleton of a newly dead dragon, she wondered if perhaps she had been cursed at birth. It looked as if she was doomed to cross paths with these infernal creatures at every turn. And to make things even more complicated, she apparently had the power to take…something….out of them upon their death. What that something was exactly, she wasn't sure of yet. She could only say that it stoked the fires of her soul, made her feel _powerful_. The feeling was fleeting, though, and now she was mired in a combination of indignation and perplexity. To make matters worse, the contingent of soldiers she had been tasked to help were now giving her a wide berth as if she herself might breathe fire. Was it not enough that she went to that Maker-forsaken Barrow to retrieve the Dragonstone? She had practically WADED through legions of draugr for the blasted thing. Even the good amount of treasure she'd found while searching wouldn't be able to erase the memory of rotting arms swinging axes and swords at her while emitting those awful, ear-splitting shrieks. Not to mention the last one she faced, who had been well armored and exceedingly difficult to kill. She'd given his (re)dead body a good kick after ripping the stone from his decaying person. There was also the matter of the wall….she had approached it, only to have incomprehensible words burned into her brain as the world blurred around her. She'd just wanted to look at it, damn it! Ophelia, stewing in her own ill fortune, didn't notice that the Jarl's housecarl, Irileth, had approached until the woman gave a discreet cough. She twisted her head to glance at the Dunmer, who looked just as haughty now as she did in Dragonsreach. In fact, her expression looked almost…scornful? Oh, this didn't bode well…..

"**We thank you for your help, adventurer. But your magic tricks were not necessary."**Irileth sniffed, derision evident in her voice and manner.

**"Magic tricks?"**

**"Yes,_ magic tricks_. Everyone knows that there haven't been a dragonborn in ages."**

"**Dragonborn?" **Ophelia asked, only to be drowned out by another speaker.**  
**  
**"But there might be now!"** A soldier piped up from their left. Upon watching their leader approach her without harm, the rest of the group had apparently grown bold and moved closer as well.

**"Yeah, Irileth, Baldr is right. I mean, we did JUST kill a dragon. And they've been extinct for centuries! Who says that the dragonborn didn't come back with them?"**

**"Nobody asked you for your opinion, Sven."**The housecarl sneered, turning her head away as if to deny the existence of such stupidity.

'**Can you do a shout, miss?" **An aging guard quietly asked Ophelia, a wary look of wonder on his face.

"**A shout?" **She asked curiously.

"**The dragonborn were famous for them."**He explained. **"Rumor is that they could use the dragon's own language against them in battle."**

Ophelia thought about the wall, the word in her mind that she'd never seen before but knew as if she'd been born reading it. This was madness of course. How could shouting a word do anything but make her throat hurt? But there HAD been a dragon. And she WAS experiencing a long bout of absurd situations right now. Maybe…..? She did an about-face, keeping the group at her back as she drew in a long breath. Couldn't hurt to check, could it?

**"FUS!"** She roared.

And the inferno answered. She felt pure energy leaving her chest as the word spilled out of her mouth and knocked over even more of the now decrepit watchtower.

There was silence behind her, broken only by the irritated voice of Irileth.

"**Well that still doesn't prove anything!"**

* * *

In the Shivering Isles, the City of New Sheoth was alive with its usual chaos. The demented laughed and cried, content in their frenzied existence, and gave praise to the Daedra who was their Lord. In the Palace, however, something was starting that would change the lives of all who lived within the borders of the Asylums.

**"HASKILL!"**A voice roared through the halls. **"HASKILL! YOU'RE NEVER AROUND WHEN I NEED YOU!"**

"**Coming, my Lord."**Answered the man in question, voice never rising above monotone. He sighed the sigh of a man resigned to his duty. It seemed that his Lord was finally home again. He had been the chamberlain of Sheogorath for many centuries now, and felt that he was adequately prepared for whatever schemes his master had cooked up in his sojourn to the mortal realm. After all, madness was commonplace here. He doubted he could be surprised at anything at all now.

**"HAAASKIIIIILLLLLL! BRING CHEESE! A WHOLE WHEEL THIS TIME!"**

Giving another small sigh, Haskill transported himself to the kitchen. Moving quickly (for it was never wise to keep any daedra waiting, especially Sheogorath) he selected one of the best Eidar cheese wheels and placed it daintily on a delicate silver serving tray. Summoning a portal, he stepped deftly into the distortion of space and reappeared in the throne room just as his Lord drew unneeded breath to scream again.

**"HASK-"**

**"Right here, my Lord." **The chamberlain said calmly, standing at attention as Sheogorath turned from his position in front of the Font of Madness. He held the serving tray aloft as the Mad God approached, not even batting an eyelash when the cheese was snatched away at an alarming speed. It did give him pause, however, when the entire wheel was dunked without preamble into the waters of madness.

**"My Lord?"** He queried, bemused by the events taking place. **"You **_**do**_** understand that you are madness itself? Eating food soaked in the Font won't make you any more unbalanced."**

**"Of course I know that, Haskill! Why wouldn't I know that? Why do YOU know that?! Are you trying to usurp my crown!?" **Sheogorath bellowed, taking care to make sure the cheese was evenly coated. He hadn't even bothered to roll up his sleeves, Haskill noted, which wasn't unusual when his Lord was in a fit of inspiration. His form, though, was very strange. That particular face hadn't been used in well over two centuries now.

**"No, Sir, I doubt that I have the temperament necessary to be the epitome of insanity."  
**  
**"Right you are! You're far too uptight to rule here. And don't forget it! Or I'll use your skull to store my pebble collection in!"** Sheogorath replied, pulling the foodstuff out of the Font and inspecting it thoroughly. It glowed faintly before fading into its original appearance. Looking satisfied, he turned to Haskill with a happily manic expression. Haskill, at the same time, was suddenly struck with a feeling of oncoming panic. That expression usually meant that he would be required to oversee some ridiculous task while his Lord bustled off to other distractions. He girded himself for the worst. Sheogorath, as he was inclined to do only some of the time, did not disappoint.

"**I need a new dress, Haskill. Several, in fact. And new armor, the best that can be offered in the Shivering Isles. Fetch me a seamstress and a blacksmith! We've got work to do before the big day!  
**  
**"Dresses, my Lord?"**gasped the Breton, looking faintly shocked. **"Armor? For **_**what**_** day?"  
**  
**"For the BIG day, Haskill! Now get to it! I don't pay you to stand around gaping like a beheaded Orc!"**

**"You don't pay me at all, Lord Sheogorath."**

**"Do I not? Well, I can't be expected to remember everything, can I? Now get moving! Events are marching on and our time is running out! Already, the first trial is finished!"**

**"Trial, Sir?"**

**"Nevermind, Haskill. Hurry, I must depart for the mortal realm again soon. And there is much to do before I leave."**

**"As you command, my Lord." **

The Mad God watched as his servant immediately disappeared into another portal, focused on the task given to him. He then turned his attention back to the cheese, muttering to himself as he stalked to his throne.

**"I've got the cheese, now all I need is wine. And atmosphere! Maybe someplace with candlelight? Or lava? Either way, soft lighting is a must."**

And so it was that Sheogorath, Mad Prince of Oblivion, planned for his next meeting with the dovakiin.


End file.
